


Unsung Heroes

by nagi_schwarz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Pre-Series, Wee!chesters, outside pov, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Grade Teacher Brenna O'Neill watches one of her students, little Dean Winchester, institute a game of Ghost Hunters; years later, she plays a game of pool and raises a glass to unsung heroes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsung Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> So much gratitude to [](http://nerdyglasses247.livejournal.com/profile)[nerdyglasses247](http://nerdyglasses247.livejournal.com/), who is a fantastic beta and without whom this story wouldn't be here. She gave me help and encouragement, helped me think up a title (I'm very bad at them) and, most of all, helped me improve as a writer. Also thanks to my poor spouse who did a quick typo check on this. Cross-posted to [](http://spn-gen.livejournal.com/profile)[spn_gen](http://spn-gen.livejournal.com/) [here](http://spn-gen.livejournal.com/2683014.html).

Of all the playground games Brenna had seen invented, Dean Winchester’s “ghost hunters” took the cake. Brenna had only been teaching first grade for a couple of years, and the games the kids played tended to follow either basic storytelling genres (westerns, sci-fi, fantasy) or adventures seen on television and in movies (time travelers, knights and dragons, ninjas), as well as the classics (house, jump rope, tag, hide-and-seek, kick ball). She’d seen pretty much every twist the kids could imagine (elves playing house, aliens playing tag, and cowboys and Indians playing jump rope). When Dean Winchester assembled a group of faithful followers (mostly girls charmed by his bright smile and wide, green eyes) on the edge of the playground and proposed a new game called “ghost hunters”, Brenna wasn’t alarmed or surprised. She hummed the _Ghostbusters_ theme under her breath and laughed.

He divided the group into “ghosts” and “hunters”, shepherding girls (hunters) and boys (ghosts) into place with firm but gentle hands and an air of authority that was adorably precocious.

“Okay,” Dean said. “The goal is to stay safe. Rule number one: salt protects you from ghosts.” He fished a piece of chalk out of his pocket, and Brenna raised her eyebrows. He’d filched it from the black board, hadn’t he? Not that chalk was a precious commodity, but when had he done that? Was he a budding klepto? She’d been keeping a close eye on him since he was new, ensuring he was fitting in and making friends, and she hadn’t seen him near the chalkboard.

Dean knelt and drew several circles on the ground, big enough for one or two kids to stand in. “If a ghost is chasing you, you pour a circle of salt and you stand in it till you can fight off the ghost, okay?”

The girls nodded. “Okay!”

Dean herded the kids to the other end of the playground. “Now, ghosts, you chase the hunters. Hunters, your first task is to get to safety. Remember the salt.”

“Wait,” Megan said. “There aren’t enough salt circles for all of us.”

Dean handed her his piece of chalk. “You might have to draw one yourself. One of the other hunters will have to distract the ghost while you make your circle.”

“What if I’m not fast enough?” Megan asked.

Dean closed his hand around hers, gazed into her eyes. “I’ll protect you.”

Megan blushed, pleased. Dean was a charmer.

He glanced over his shoulder at the boys. “Are you ready, ghosts?”

The boys nodded.

“What happens if we catch a hunter?” Lewis asked.

“Don’t hurt her,” Dean said. “Then we can trade. You get to be hunters too.”

Lewis grinned. “Awesome.” Then he raised his hands and let out a classic Scooby-Doo ghost wail. He took off after the girls, and the others followed. Lewis made a beeline for Megan, but Dean jumped between them, waving his arms.

“Hey, dead guy, over here!”

Lewis veered toward him, and Megan drew a shaky chalk circle while the other girls shrieked and tried to squeeze into the existing circles Dean had drawn.

Brenna shook her head and turned away. Ghost hunters. Salt. What would kids be thinking up next?

After recess, she kept an eye on Dean, wary of any more filched school property. He fidgeted at his desk while the other kids pored over their books. He could read very well, and he’d already finished the book Brenna assigned, so she set another one in front of him.

“Try this one.” She smiled at him. “It’s about ghosts. You like ghosts, right?”

“Ghosts are dangerous,” he said. “We’re supposed to protect people from ghosts.”

“We?” Brenna echoed.

“People,” Dean said. “We should protect each other.” His expression was terribly solemn.

Brenna laughed and ruffled his hair, and he leaned into the touch for a moment before recoiling sharply, picking up the book.

“You’re a good kid, Dean.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, hiding behind the book. He wasn’t reading it. Brenna remembered what the admissions counselor had said, that Dean’s mother was out of the picture. He probably wasn't used to women touching him.

*

“So this ghost hunter game is really catching on with the kids,” Holly said. She and Brenna were on recess duty together. When Shane was on duty with Brenna, he stationed himself at the other side of the playground, ostensibly for better coverage and visibility, but really to avoid her because she’d turned down his drunken advances at the faculty Christmas party last year.

Brenna raised her eyebrows. “Your kids are playing it too, now?”

“Yup. They all brought their own chalk to school today.” Holly nodded at Dean, who was marshaling a couple dozen kids into ranks for another round of ghost hunters. He hadn’t pre-drawn any circles for today’s game.

“You gotta be fast,” Brenna had heard him saying. “Speed is survival.”

The other kids bobbed their heads, listening raptly.

“You know a ghost is in your house when the lights flicker and it gets super cold. Supernaturally cold,” Dean continued. “Sometimes you might also hear noises in the walls, like mice, even though you know your house has no mice. Keep an eye out for the signs."

He got another round of nods in response.

“Kid’s got a vivid imagination,” Holly said.

Brenna nodded. “Yeah. He’s smart. Reads better than pretty much everyone else in class. Gets bored quickly, though.”

“He’s like a little general of his own ghost and hunter army.” Holly smiled, and together they watched Dean pacing back and forth, explaining the rules of the game to today’s newest recruits.

“I think Rick at the front office said his father is an ex-marine,” Brenna said. It would explain a lot. Dean’s hand-me-down Army surplus clothes, his military-short haircut, the way he clasped his hands behind his back while he paced - it all reminded Brenna of her cousin Jake, who’d served in Vietnam.

“Salt is not your only option,” Dean said. “Iron also stops ghosts, but it’s super heavy and harder to find in an emergency - hard to tell if something’s iron, you know? If you’re really desperate and you can’t stop the ghost yourself, you can call for help. And who’re you gonna call?”

“The Ghostbusters?” Lewis asked.

Holly burst out laughing, then caught herself and stifled the sound behind her hand.

Dean whipped around, narrowed his eyes at her, and he looked so fierce Brenna couldn’t help but giggle too. Dean then turned back to Lewis.

“No,” he said. “The Ghostbusters aren’t real.”

“What about a priest?” Megan asked.

“Only if the priest is also a hunter, like Pastor Jim,” Dean said with casual, easy confidence.

“Who’s Pastor Jim?” Holly whispered.

“Someone he made up, obviously,” Brenna whispered back.

“No, the person you call is Uncle Bobby,” Dean continued. “You need to memorize this number. When the ghost is chasing you, run to the phone, pour a circle of salt around you to keep the ghost away, and make the call.” He rattled off a number, including the area code, with startling ease.

Holly blinked. “That’s not a Nebraska area code.”

“No, I think it’s for South Dakota,” Brenna said. Her cousin Jake lived there.

“Can you say that again?” Megan asked.

Dean repeated, it slower. Then he directed the kids to repeat it back to him. At first only Megan and Lewis could do it without stumbling, but after several tries, the ragged chorus of numbers became confident unison.

“Crap,” Holly said. “I can never get the kids to memorize stuff like that for me.”

“Yeah, well,” Brenna said, “you’re not Dean Winchester.”

Once Dean was satisfied the kids had memorized the number, he started dividing them into hunters and ghosts. The hunters always outnumbered the ghosts at least two to one, but Dean made sure everyone had a turn at both roles before recess was over.

“Now, I’ve put some phones on the playground. Find one, circle it with salt, and call Uncle Bobby,” Dean said. The ghosts gathered in their assigned spot, and the hunters spread out, ready to carry out their mission. Dean had supplied phones in the form of rolled-up newspapers. Were a bunch of families in the neighborhood missing their morning papers?

“Remember,” Dean said, “hunters help each other. No one gets left behind, all right? Now...go!”

They chased and chased, and Brenna was exhausted just watching them. A couple of times Dean took his hunters to task when other hunters fell back and got caught by the ghosts, and Brenna wondered if she should step in when he was particularly fierce, but on the next round, no hunters got caught. Then Dean had the ghosts change places with some of the hunters, and the game began again.

“Kids,” Holly said, shaking her head. “What will they think of next?”

*

The next thing Dean Winchester thought of was downright disturbing. Brenna sat with Holly on yet another recess shift, and Dean's game of Ghosts and Hunters had shifted to the edge of the playground to include the sandbox.

“Does anyone know how ghosts are made?” Dean asked. He had his hands clasped behind his back and was pacing in front of his ranks of children, which had swelled over the last week. The majority of them were girls, including some girls from second and third grade.

Megan raised her hand. “Unfinished business!”

“That's correct.” Dean favored her with a smile that, in ten years, would be daddy-reach-for-the-shotgun charming. “And how do we get rid of the ghosts?”

Lewis raised his hand. “We talk to them and help them cross over!”

“No,” Dean said.

Lewis wilted.

“Well, that could work,” Dean conceded, “but if the ghost is chasing you, that takes too much time. Remember, you have to be fast.”

“Then what do we do?” Megan asked.

Dean pointed to the sandbox. “You have to find the body the ghost belongs to, cover it with salt, and set it on fire.”

There was a chorus of, “Ewwwww!” and the kids made faces, backed away.

Dean said, “I'm serious. It's the only way to get rid of a ghost. Forever.”

“That's gross,” Lewis said, wrinkling his nose.

“That is really gross,” Holly agreed.

Brenna was on her feet and across the playground. She recognized the angry, hurt, cornered expression on Dean's face, had seen it a thousand times on her sister's face before she lashed out, broke someone's nose, and got expelled from yet another school.

“Hey kids,” she said, “break it up. Go find another game to play.”

The last time Shane had tried that after the janitors complained about the chalk circles, the kids had turned the collective power of their whining and puppy eyes on him. Today the children acquiesced with startling ease, drifting away.

Brenna knelt down so she was eye-level with Dean. “Hey, Dean, you can't go telling stories like that. You'll scare the other kids. Where did you ever hear of such a thing?”

He lifted his chin, defiant. “It's the truth. That's how you get rid of ghosts.” He believed what he was saying, that much Brenna could see.

She sighed. “Run along and play.”

Dean didn't go join Megan and Lewis and the other kids. He took to the monkey bars and started what looked like his own mini-Marine obstacle course.

Later that evening, while Brenna was cleaning out her stack of mail, she saw a story in the newspaper about some grave desecrations. Bodies in some of the cemeteries in nearby towns had been dug up and set on fire, and investigators thought there was salt residue on some of the bodies. Of course. Dean was a smart kid, could read very well. He'd been reading strange things in the newspaper. He wasn't the first kid to make up a game like that, ripped from the headlines, but his father really needed to keep an eye on what kind of reading material his son was getting into.

*

Saturday afternoon, Brenna was on the way home from the bookstore. She had the newest LJ Smith novel tucked into her jacket, as well as some children’s books for story time and was eager to get home and crack them open. She turned a corner and saw Dean in the parking lot of the ratty motel that had rates by the hour. She remembered he had no mother, and for one horrified moment she thought Daddy Winchester was in a room getting serviced while Dean was left to push a wheelbarrow all over the parking lot, dodging cars and making pretty good car engine rumble sound effects. And then she realized Dean wasn’t just wheeling a wheelbarrow around for the fun of it. There was a toddler - dark-haired, bright-eyed - crouched in the wheelbarrow and hanging on for dear life, laughing in delight when Dean made a particularly sharp turn.

After a few laps of the parking lot, Dean set the wheelbarrow down and sank down on one of the cement parking stops, breathing hard. Brenna couldn’t blame him; she’d never have been able to keep up.

“You having fun, Sammy?” Dean asked.

Sammy clapped his hands and giggled. “Hug, Dee!”

Dean took a deep breath before heaving himself to his feet and leaning over, smothering the little boy with a hug. Were they brothers? It was hard to tell from a distance. Dean was so blond and Sammy was so dark, but they did have the same dusty, threadbare hand-me-down clothes.

“Wanna go a few more rounds?” Dean asked.

Sammy held his arms out. “Kiss!”

Dean leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Sammy’s hair. There was something disturbingly motherly in the gesture, but also cautious, controlled; Dean had watched a thousand mothers make the same gesture and was copying it as best as he could.

“Love you, Dee,” Sammy said softly.

“You too, Sammy.” Dean ruffled his hair.

Brenna couldn’t help herself. The smart thing to do would be to leave Dean and Sammy to their business. They were relatively safe in the parking lot, and chances were if Daddy Winchester surfaced from the lady du jour he’d be able to keep an eye on them. Brenna had had training; she hadn’t witnessed criminal levels of neglect yet. But she was curious, so she veered off the pavement and into the parking lot.

“Hello, Dean,” she said. “Are you having fun this fine Saturday?”

Dean straightened up and moved to stand between her and Sammy, who clung to Dean’s t-shirt and peered around him. He had bright green eyes, just like Dean. Definitely brothers.

“Hello, Miss O’Neill,” Dean said, wary but polite. “We are having fun. Aren’t we, Sammy?”

“Hewwo,” Sammy said, waving.

“You out here all alone?” Brenna cast a pointed glance at several of the nearby doors.

Dean shrugged. “Dad ran out to get some food real fast. He’ll be back soon. Sammy was getting crabby inside.”

They were living at this dump? It was better than the kids being left alone while Daddy Winchester got it on with a hooker, Brenna supposed, but not much better. Shouldn’t have it been the other way around, Daddy letting the kids out to play while he was around to supervise and then making them stay inside while he was out grocery shopping?

“Dee, vroom vroom!” Sammy rattled the wheelbarrow meaningfully.

“In a moment, buddy,” Dean said. He reached back and ruffled Sammy’s hair; the gesture was affectionate and unconscious. “Dad will be back soon. And we’re fine.  Mrs. Smitty - she runs the front desk - she looks out for us.” He nodded in the direction of the front office.

Brenna glanced at the heavily curtained windows and doubted Mrs. Smitty’s visibility into the parking lot. If she really ran the place, chances were she wouldn’t let a couple of kids, one still in diapers, run around the parking lot willy-nilly. On the other hand, where had Dean found the wheelbarrow?

Dean smiled up at Brenna, nodded at her stack of books. “What have you got there?”

Brenna shifted her purchases so he could see. She kept the LJ Smith book hidden, because no one needed to know she read vampire romances, but she showed him the rest. “I got some really neat story books for story time next week. Check this out - it’s _Goodnight Moon._ My mom read this to me when I was a kid. It was my favorite book, and I lost my copy, but I got this one for a steal. Used copies are the best.”

Dean’s eyes were bright with interest. “The bookstore in town sells used books?”

“Yes,” Brenna said. “I saw this one in the window a few weeks back, but when I went to buy it someone else had already taken it, but then when I went back today there it was on the shelf, so I bought it. Kismet, right?”

“Kismet?” Dean tested the word on his tongue.

“Fate,” Brenna said.

Dean huffed. “Fate's baloney. A man's gotta make his own way in the world.”

Something about the gruffness of his tone was adorable. He was probably imitating his dad, the big tough marine who’d scared the crap out of Rick at the front office on Dean’s first day. Brenna was charmed. And then she realized - she was _being charmed_. By a first-grader. Was he trying to distract her?

Sammy started to cry.

Brenna flinched. Kid had lungs.

Dean spun around and immediately scooped Sammy up, tucking an arm under his bottom and whispering soothing nothings into his hair. Mrs. Smitty didn’t seem at all fazed by the sound, if the lack of reaction from the office was any indication. Several curtains of nearby rooms twitched. Dean, juggling the awkward bundle of his brother, bounced him a few times.

“You hungry? What’s wrong, buddy?”

Sammy buried his face against Dean’s shoulder and shook his head, still wailing. Then Dean sighed knowingly and peered down the back of Sammy’s diaper.

“Right. Let’s go get you changed.” Dean left the wheelbarrow where it was and made a beeline for room seventeen. He unlocked the door one-handed, the motion smooth like he’d done it a hundred times before, and he bundled Sammy into the room. Brenna couldn’t help herself. She followed.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, thanks,” Dean said. “You can go.” He unrolled what looked like a military bedroll on top of the nearest bed, then scooped up an army surplus ammo bag and dumped its contents on the bed - diapers, wipes, powder. He laid Sammy out and changed his diaper with an efficiency Brenna had never seen in her own brother, and that man had three children of his own. Dean disposed of the diaper with nary a wrinkle of his nose and then put little Sammy’s pants back on, scooped him up and bounced him a few more times.

“All better?”

Sammy nodded and pressed a wet sloppy kiss to Dean’s cheek.

“Ready to go play some more vroom vroom?”

Sammy cheered.

Brenna stood in the doorway, helpless. Should any kid be that good at changing a diaper? Sure the Winchesters were a single-parent household, but Dean was barely seven, Sammy maybe two. The room was neat, and both boys were healthy-looking, but there was no sign of their father. Did he leave a first-grader to look after a toddler often?

“Do you want me to wait with you till your dad gets back?” Brenna asked.

“No, thanks,” Dean said again. “It’ll only be a few minutes. Wouldn’t want you to waste your fine Saturday.” He picked up Sammy and the room key, locked the room, and carried Sammy back to the wheelbarrow. As soon as Sammy had resumed his perch, Dean picked up the wheelbarrow and started running it around the parking lot.

Brenna had never been dismissed by a child before. She watched Dean and Sammy make a few laps, and then she resumed her walk home. As she put away her purchases and cleaned her little house, made a modest supper, she wondered. Should she call Child Protective Services? Had Daddy Winchester made it back to his boys as soon as Dean said he would? Brenna pondered the question all night. It buzzed in the back of her mind while she was curled up in bed devouring her new novel, and it followed her to sleep.

 

*

When Brenna woke, it was three a.m., and the bedside lamp was flickering. She must have fallen asleep in the middle of her book. She reached out to turn it off and flinched. It was freezing outside the covers. She sat up, casting around for the sweater she kept on the chair next to the bed, and she could see her own breath in the air. That wasn’t right. It was September. They were in the middle of an Indian summer. It was supposed to last till mid-October.

Brenna tugged on the sweater and turned off the lamp, ready to hunker down and go back to sleep, and then she heard it. Scratching. In the walls.

Dean Winchester’s voice ricocheted through her mind.

_“You know a ghost is in your house when the lights flicker and it gets super cold. Supernaturally cold. Sometimes you might also hear noises in the walls, like mice, even though you know your house has no mice. Keep an eye out for the signs.”_

Impossible. There was no such thing as ghosts. The Indian summer must have ended abruptly and they were in the middle of a cold snap. The cold had probably driven the mice from next door’s field to seek shelter indoors. As for the flickering lamp - well, she’d fallen asleep with the thing on more times than she could count. The bulb was probably dying.

Brenna huddled under the covers and tried to go back to sleep.

But it was cold, and she could still hear the scratching in the walls.

No matter. There was no such thing as ghosts. It was a game, just a game the kids played at recess. If she closed her eyes, she would fall asleep.

She almost did.

Downstairs, something thumped.

That was no ghost. It was a thief.

To hell with that. Brenna was a school teacher, poor as dirt. If some bastard was going to burglarize her house, she was going to give him hell. She took the time to slip on some sweats and socks and grab her old field hockey stick out of her closet. Then she crept down the stairs to the den where the noise was loudest. She crouched on the bottom step, grip white-knuckled on the hockey stick, ready to pounce.

“Get the hell out of my house!” She burst into the den, swinging wildly.

There was nobody.

Just books.

All her books. Swirling and floating and bumping into each other, into furniture. Her bookshelves were empty and the den was a whirlwind of pages.

And in the middle of it all, a glowing, child-sized figure, flipping the pages of _Goodnight Moon._

Brenna froze. A ghost. There was a real live - dead - undead - ghost. In her house. Reading her copy of _Goodnight Moon._

She screamed.

A book flew straight at her head.

She screamed again and ducked, but the book caught her in the shoulder. She reeled backward, crashing into the kitchen door.

And then she remembered. Kitchen. Salt.

Wait. That was irrational, the imaginary ramblings of a little kid --

A ghost was irrational and imaginary and also in her house right now.

Another book struck the wall behind her.

Brenna ran into the kitchen. She fumbled through the cupboards, searching until she finally found some salt. She quickly poured a circle around herself.

The glowing child-figure drifted into the kitchen. It hurled _Goodnight Moon_ at her. She ducked. The ghost drifted closer, closer.

Brenna cringed, waiting for something - anything - horrible to happen.

The ghost came up short, as if against an invisible barrier. Brenna straightened up a fraction, amazed. The salt had worked? It must have, because the ghost started kicking and pounding at the invisible barrier, tossing its head like a child in a full-blown tantrum.

If the salt worked, what else was true that Dean had said?

Brenna’s entire body was wound tighter than a guitar string on the verge of snapping. She eased a hand beyond the ring of salt and grabbed her phone. She dialed the number she'd heard the kids repeat over and over again.

It actually rang.

The man who answered sounded groggy and grumpy. “What the hell?”

“Is this Uncle Bobby?”

“Who's asking?”

“My name's Brenna O’Neill. I'm Dean Winchester's teacher.”

There was a grunt and a groan, a rustle. “Is Dean all right? Has John gone missing?” Uncle Bobby sounded much more awake.

“There's a ghost in my house.”

“Come again?”

“There's a ghost. In my house.”

“This some kind of prank?”

The ghost was kicking and thrashing, its movements jerky, inhuman.

Brenna's throat closed. “No. It's not a prank. Dean was teaching the kids at school how to protect themselves from ghosts, and I thought he was kidding, but now I'm in my kitchen in a circle of salt calling a complete stranger.”

“Stay in the salt,” Bobby said. “What's your address?”

She was so terrified of the glowing thing inches away from her that she told a complete stranger her address.

“That ain't anywhere near me. I'll dispatch whoever's nearest.”

“What are you, some kind of army?”

“Not even close, sister. Hang tight. What does the ghost look like?”

“A little kid.”

“Damn. That's the ghost I sent John after. Stay close to your phone. I gotta call John.”

“Wait, don't go, please --”

The line went dead.

The ghost shrieked.

Brenna sank down to the floor, clutching the phone and canister of salt, and sobbed.

Around her, books and papers flew while the ghost-child whipped itself into a frenzy.

Brenna covered her head with her arms and wailed.

The front door banged open.

Brenna screamed.

Were more ghosts coming? Was she going to die?

A man said, “Dean, cover me!”

Brenna’s head snapped up at the name.

Dean Winchester stood in the doorway, holding a canister of salt. A man - tall, broad-shouldered, face obscured by shadow - barged into the house. He was swinging an iron poker. When it hit the ghost, the ghost vanished.

A moment later, it flickered back into existence. It knelt, picked up _Goodnight Moon._ The man started forward and grabbed for the book. He was flung back and knocked aside by a giant invisible hand.

Brenna screamed again.

Dean let out a yell and charged forward, throwing a handful of salt at the ghost. It vanished. The book clattered to the floor. Dean dumped salt on it, and then he was fumbling a lighter out of his pocket.

The ghost reappeared behind him.

Brenna cried out. “Dean!”

The ghost swatted with one translucent child-sized hand.

Dean went tumbling aside like a rag-doll.

The man swore, staggered to his feet. He slashed at the ghost with the poker again, scooped up Dean's lighter, and then the book was ablaze.

The ghost, inches away from Dean, screamed and vanished in writhing flames.

“You all right, son?” the man asked.

He must have been John Winchester.

Dean heaved himself to his knees, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“We have to go, now. Go get your brother.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean stood up without hesitation.

And the Winchester men were gone from Brenna's house as abruptly as they'd arrived. She stared at the burning book until it was nothing but embers. Finally, she poured a glass of water over the ashes, tip-toed over the destruction, and went to bed.

The next morning, when her house was still a mess, she knew the night before hadn't been a nightmare. She called Uncle Bobby, and once he confirmed she was alive and well, he hung up on her. He didn't pick up when she called back. On Monday, she learned that Dean Winchester had been withdrawn from school due to a “family emergency”. There was a forwarding address for Dean's school records, but the new school never responded to Brenna's inquiries about the boy with the green eyes and killer smile. Weeks passed, and the grave desecrations ceased.

 

*

Months passed, and the next time there were reports of grave desecrations, Brenna didn't join in on the other teachers' disgusted condemnations of the perpetrators. She did a little digging of her own, and she learned that all of the people whose graves had been desecrated had died violently.

 

*

Years passed. Brenna always carried a little canister of salt with her, and she never forgot Dean Winchester and his solemn green eyes. One night, she was at a bar with Holly and some of the other teachers. She was surprised when she spotted an attractive young man in a leather jacket leaning against a pool table, chatting up one of the waitresses. Something about his jacket was familiar. Several pretty co-eds clustered around him and giggled, blushing whenever he turned his smile on them.

The jacket. That smile. Brenna sat up straighter. If she pictured the man younger, with more stark freckles, lighter hair - he’d be Dean Winchester. And that leather jacket - his father had worn it the night he burst into her house and saved her from a ghost. Brenna watched, intrigued, as Dean twirled the pool cue with an expert hand. Was he old enough to legally be in a bar? How old did that make Brenna? She looked down at herself. She didn’t feel any older than when she’d first started teaching. Sure, her joints creaked sometimes when she stood up too quickly, but she was still herself, a lover of books and romance and a teacher, wanting to see the best for her students. What had Dean grown up to become? A ghost hunter like his father?

Whatever had happened to his little brother? Brenna remembered the wide-eyed tot who’d loved Dean and trusted him implicitly. Had a monster killed him? Had a monster killed John Winchester? Was that why Dean wore his father’s jacket?

“Hey, Brenna, you want another round?” Holly asked.

Brenna nodded distractedly, pushed a few bills across the table to her. Holly stood up and headed for the bar. While she was gone, one of the other younger teachers, Jill, leaned over and prodded Brenna in the shoulder.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Jill asked.

Brenna dragged her gaze away from where Dean was lining up another shot at the pool table. “I don’t know. Am I?”

“That kid in the leather jacket. Am I right? If I were ten years younger --”

“Who says you have to be ten years younger?” Kimberly broke in. “You’re a cougar. Go take your chances.”

“Against those little perky sorority girls? Please.” Jill sat back, drummed her fingertips on the table, her gaze hungry. “I’m happy with the view I’ve got. A girl can’t be too greedy, after all.”

Since everyone was staring at Dean and the pool tables anyway, Brenna felt free to resume her study of her former student. He was tall, at least as tall as his father had been. He wore the same bulky leather jacket, jeans, and boots that marked John Winchester in Brenna’s memory. She wasn’t sure how built Dean was underneath the bulk of the jacket and layers of flannel, but she had no doubt he was strong.

“Greedy would be wanting both of them,” Holly said. She returned with her hands full of mugs and distributed them with the air of someone who had been a waitress years ago.

“Both of them?” Brenna echoed.

Jill snorted. “Where have you been all night? That hottie by the pool table has a sweet young thing with him.” She gestured with her mug.

Brenna followed the line of her wrist and saw, leaning up against the next pool table, a tall, lanky figure. He had a mop of soft-looking brown hair, bright eyes, and a wide grin, which he smothered every time Dean sank another ball. The frat boys who had accompanied the sorority girls to the bar looked less than pleased.

“If the kid with the cue weren’t hitting on those girls hard enough to bruise, I’d think he and the other were a pair,” Kimberly said. “Two boys that pretty don’t hang around together for no good reason.”

“Unless it’s to attract women,” Holly said. “Which they do.”

“I dunno.” Kimberly arched an eyebrow. “Have you seen how they get in each other’s space? Watch.”

Dean reached out with one hand, never looking away from the table, and the taller man - younger, but almost half a foot taller - reached out and slapped the chalk onto Dean’s palm. The motions were smooth and synchronized, like they’d been done a thousand times before. Maybe they had been.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said.

Breanna stared. No way. The little wide-eyed tot in the wheelbarrow had grown up to become him? She squinted, pondering. Yes, she could see it. He had the same eyes as the child she had glimpsed so many years ago. Was he old enough to be in a bar?

“I'm gonna go give it a shot.” Jill stood up, smoothed down her skirt, and crossed the bar. She paused beside Sammy, who looked startled at her presence, but then he smiled politely. Brenna saw good manners all over that smile. He was being respectful to a matron and seemed utterly oblivious to the way Jill flirted with him.

“That girl has balls of steel,” Holly said.

Jill said something that made Sammy blush and duck his head. Holly purred in appreciation. Brenna was reminded again of the little tot in the wheelbarrow. He was adorable all right, but she'd have felt sick if she tried to flirt with him.

Jill leaned into Sammy's space. Behind her, Dean went still. He'd been about to take a shot, flirting with the girl across the table, but he straightened up, gaze fixed on Jill. He radiated protective fury.

Whatever Sammy said made Jill straighten up and back off, shaken. She returned to the teachers’ table in a hurry. Dean locked gazes with Sammy. Something unspoken passed between them before Dean resumed flirting and playing pool.

“Are they gay after all?” Holly patted Jill's arm sympathetically.

“No.” Jill swallowed hard. “Sam was a senior at Stanford when his girlfriend was murdered, and he took some time off school for a road trip with his brother.”

“Murdered?” Brenna echoed. “That's awful.” Had Sammy had to dig up her bones and burn her body to end her ghost? She glanced at him again. His expression was carefully blank while he watched Dean clear the pool table. Maybe he wasn't so oblivious to flirting after all. Had he made up a story to make Jill back off? But then Brenna remembered the worry and concern on Dean's face when Jill was flirting with Sammy and decided, no, Sammy hadn't lied.

“Well,” Holly said, “you were brave. We applaud you.”

Brenna lifted her glass to that. Several minutes later, the frat boys stormed out of the bar, their girls with them. Several of them glanced longingly back at Dean. Instead of looking disappointed, Dean was positively gleeful as he showed Sammy the stack of bills on the corner of the pool table.

They'd just sharked those frat boys at pool. Were they con artists?

No, Brenna thought. They're ghost hunters. She remembered how John Winchester was always absent and how no one seemed to know what he actually did for a living. She remembered two young boys wearing threadbare, dusty hand-me-downs. Ghost hunters probably didn't get paid anything. She stood up and headed across the bar.

“Is she crazy?” Jill asked.

Kimberly gaped at Brenna. “Definitely. She’s out of her mind.”

“Maybe she's going to try the brother now that the little girls are gone,” Holly said.

Brenna sauntered up to Dean and slapped a twenty dollar bill down on the edge of the pool table. “I saw what you did, kid. Bet I can take you.”

Dean blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sammy scooped up the pile of cash and made it vanish somewhere in his hoodie.

Brenna grinned. “You heard me. Me and you. Twenty bucks says you can't beat an old elementary school teacher.”

Dean and Sammy exchanged looks. Sammy raised his eyebrows, questioning. Dean smirked. Sammy handed Dean a twenty.

“You're on,” Dean said. He handed her a cue.

Brenna was good at pool. It was the only good thing she had a knack for besides teaching first graders. Dean set up the table. Brenna shot first, cracking the triangle of colors and shooting them every which way. The tension between the brothers ratcheted up another notch every time she sank a ball. She might have enjoyed it a little too much. For most of the game, she had Dean over a barrel, even if he didn’t know it. In the end, she let him win. When Dean sank the eight, she put on a good show, groaning and letting her head drop.

“I must be getting old.”

“Not so old you're not a great white pool shark,” Dean said, grinning at her, and wow, he really had grown into his looks. His mother must have been beautiful.

“Maybe I'll have better luck next time,” Brenna said.

“Sorry. This show's one night only.” Dean winked. He handed his winnings over to Sam, who made them vanish somewhere in his hoodie.

Brenna waved. “It was fun, boys. Thanks for making this old gal feel young again.” And she sashayed back to her table.

Holly and Jill gaped at her.

“Are you insane?” Kimberly asked. “You just walked away! Those boys were smoking hot. The older one was totally flirting with you.”

Brenna sank back down into her chair. “It was all in good fun.” She shrugged and sipped her beer.

“Remind me to never play pool with you,” Holly muttered.

Brenna raised her glass. “How about a toast?”

“To what?” Jill raised her glass.

“To pretty boys playing pool, unsung heroes, and girls' nights out.”

Holly lifted her glass. “Damn right teachers are unsung heroes. Cheers!”

Jill and Kimberly echoed her cheer, and Brenna drank deeply. She watched Sam and Dean slip out of the bar and hoped someday someone would raise a glass for them.


End file.
